Ottar Apr 2016

J’ai Perdu Mon Couer

I kept all my childhood dreams
in the sweaty palms of my hands
and one after another they found a
regret and slipped

Jeg Mistett mitt hjerte

J’ai garde tous les rêves
dans la paume de mes mains
moites et l’un après l’autre ils
ont trouvé un regret et tranquillement
glissé loin.

I Lost My Heart

Jeg beholdt barndommen drommer
i  svett handflatene og etter hverandre
de fant anger go fled unna.

But that is not where I am.
I am a day dreamer
I am a dream chaser, all night long.
I am striding half empty
always to feel the joy, pouring
spilling over the edge of
my day into night. Running
down the sides of this vessel,
saturated with the pieces
of the dreams that stuck
to the sweat and in the pores
of these two hands of a man
that hide the child’s hands inside.

        De svarte skyene kjenner mitt navn
Yes, the black clouds know my name
        Les nuages noirs connaissent mon nom.

And I know the God that created this heart.
Je l’entends battre
Som Thors hammer

Using the keyboard to get the proper vowel and letter in language specific characters was hit and miss...sigh
Okay today was a translation poem, I could have tried Eng-Fr but I went Eng-Fr- Nor, and one line in one language lead into a verse of another, etc to you who are trained in translation, my apologies in advance, to those who are native to these languages, I hope I am close
if I am not shazbot nanu nanu
Ottar Apr 2016

I remember Reaching for your hand before we first kissed.

I remember Enjoying the warmth of our hands touching as did our lips.

I remember Measuring my words whispered in your ear, to take you beyond bliss.

I remember Every tasted breath, before we kissed.

I remember Minutes spent together, the blood pounding in my state of light headed

I remember Brown eyes drinking in my blue eyes, as we touched finger tips.

I remember Every tasted breath, before we kissed.

I remember Relishing the next time our hands would be closer than our lips.

I remember
the letter
you wrote
saying it was
better that
this was good-
bye, I was across
the country
and could
not test the
look in your
eyes, gone
cold. This
is very old.

First serious girlfriend thirty-seven years ago.

A B a A a b A B  rhyme scheme for the 8 lines
Ottar Apr 2016

She kills things.

"Roses are red, the violets are dead.”
She stopped, looked at her toes as she spoke.
Moving at full speed, Her hair flowed from her head .
The door suddenly thrust open, against the vase, which She broke.

Quickly, running, fast up the steps, to find Her granddad

She knew she was is in trouble, forgetting her grandparents warning.
Where the violets had been, there was a shimmering, growing lake.
She saw the garden, in full sun, that she watered that morning.
Bored, across the yard She skipped to count, how many would it take?

Surely done, it was playtime, strawberry stained lips, and no one around.

They left Her there to tidy up, shut off the water, and pick strawberries.
They put Her to work in the flower garden full of colour, and a few bees.
Grandpa said to Grandma, “that girl has a lot of cheek."
She said,"Roses have thorns, violets are weak”

She was the garden tempest.

Backwards story leads to poetry.
I may have missed this by a long ways, but I am glad I am no where near this spooky child.
Ottar Apr 2016

Her eyes matched her hair, and she watched me sit down there, at a small table.
There were two black tables small, with four chairs each, her eyes shut, she slept.
Her phone at her elbow, tension, burdened facial features, i prayed.

I left her, I walked out, found a man bent over, a humble posture
At peace, bent head covered, his tobacco stained fingers laced, prayerfully.
He was a blue jean Jesus, beard bore the same stains as his rough hewn hands.

I passed by briskly and did not look him in the eye, walked down the street.
The blonde pole dancer next caught my eye, she wore short shorts that bared her thigh.
Her habit called, the street she knew, "No Fear, Little Sleep, and Need of Prayer"

seventeen - syllables and Long Lines
Ottar Apr 2016

Battle royal for a bottle of red.
Up the ante, we're going for Chianti!

Grant me kindness, pour a splash on my fettered tongue.
Up the ante, we're going for a thousand cases of Chianti!

Hoist the mains'l, sea dogs, raise the anchor, or you be hung!
Up the ante, the Cap'n is in a wanton need of Chianti!

Another wine won't do?
Up the ante, we know where they harbour the Chianti-shhhh

Wind be fast, my thirst is deep, as the desert is dry!
Up the ante, we're not paying' for the Chianti we're takin"

The ship from stem to stern, you get to clean, when we return, alive!
Up the ante, it is worth all the cases of Chianti, below decks we can hold!

Up the ante, we're putting' out to sea, we have a nose for good Chianti!
For when the Cap'n retires he will drink and
sing this Chianti Chanty at a seaside shanty, all day!

Chanty...nuff said
Ottar Apr 2016


Going out on run, in the full Sun
Helmet on my head, both hands on my... Rifle,

If you said "gun", drop and give your weapon 10 of your best pushups.
If this ain't fun, call you mom, call your dad, at mile ten they can pick you up.


Sound off ...
one,...  two,...  three,...  four,..  one,two,... three,four

I'll keep running when my legs turn to jelly
I'll finish this run, crawling on my belly

How far?
All the way!

You gonna quit??
No Way! Not today!!

Sound off ...
one,...  two,...  three,...  four,..  one,two,... three,four

one mile down nine to go!
just warming up on the road.


Don't let your rifle hit the ground,
When you need it most it might let you down.

Hold your rifle above your head
Yes sir, but I'd rather be dreaming in my bed

Sound off ...
one,...  two,...  three,...  four,..  one,two,... three,four


Are we there yet?
Closer than we were, you bet!

And this would go on intermittently during "forced marches", a forced march was usually at double time, or a some kind of run shuffle or run pace, often with helmet, rifle and web belt and all the accessories. This version, I cleaned and did a remix of a couple of cadence songs. Similar to a sea chanty because there was always an echo part for the troops/soldiers.
Militaries all over the world are renowned for their cadence songs, some units went to great lengths and much pride was put into these as boosting morale and the camaraderie was often the primary goal, that what ever you were going through you were not alone.
Ottar Apr 2016

"Glory be to God for dappled things,"
from this point on,  plucked thin heart strings,
broken hearted blues, smooth as whiskey, for IT burns and the heart has no memory,

Hug the person, not the day, be the tortise shell pattern, that stops the
ocean in its' tracks.
Sit on a curb in a distant place, counting bullet casings, as no one cares about how many tear drops
have fallen,

Swirl the red wine in the bowl of glass and watch the glass bleed back into the wine,
And stretch out on the pattern of shadows as sunset catches, resets, and  releases,

and yes you and your lonely spirit, search high and low for an identity, and want to read language poetry, so you can misunderstand the meaning and have an excuse,
but be a wind instrument, the world around you plays the notes, He wrote the song, sings along, and without you, there would be no music, at all
for those who need to meet you yet.

Prompt take a line first line or another and write a poem from there, wherever it takes you.
Gerard Manley Hopkins "Pied Beauty"
Ottar Apr 2016

Will it always only be a safe dream
like wandering in a bare wilderness,
game to robust predators, and wildness
clear choices call across the primal stream.

It was late Spring when we first did daydream
the fragrant flowers were dusting progress
Winter's meagre offer, a cold caress
the wildlife, sedate upon the grounds glean

of Fall's gathered rare jewelled leaf mountains,
among the valley's musk we would linger
peak with sounds, echoes loud voiced joy bringer
beyond Summer's pleasured column fountains,
wayward wine red chances, seasoned drinker
deep red and bottled up, loose danger pains.

So there was a man who watched life pass him by and as he could not be adventurous in deed, he was in word.
Ottar Apr 2016

moon beams read all the stories to the children at night as they
went to bed, not sleepy

the Underjordiske were everywhere they could cause a fray, always
acting out and creepy

and lost people from far away have stories to tell
but eyes, echo against safe canyon walls, they are lost too,

And the Earth gives a beautiful sigh out my window, and the branches and leaves say "again, do it again, do"

I let my self drift on the Columbia River, an inner tube swollen with the air from the smelter on the steep banks of that place called home

and here the clear and cold night snaps me out of my reverie
for just a moment, I see the gloaming

the dream, I had as a child climbing mountains all,
ones that scratched the belly of the sky

from there I would see all the longboats there that ever floated
on any ocean or any bay with sails on mast high, flags to fly

and the bright lit ones would be the funeral pyres
lighting the way to the Rainbow Bridge,
"Odin, Ve, can you hear me?"

big dreams that don't fit in small houses and needles
from the street won't pick locks but pierce lives, lost souls of the sea

and my past is a lover that lets me sleep at the foot
of her bed, curled up on a cushion of Dogwood flowers,

every morning to wake up in a different alley and walk just long
enough to see that I am lost, powerless

but i fear that this is savagely wrong
and there is no music in here to sooth the beast  

standing so close to border of reality that I
hear all the illegal crossings scream, West to East

and Belugas gently drop
into the deep part of the
of the River Fraser where I wait, they leave
me her letter and take the bait
and she said "she didn't think
I would mind if she found someone
else, as the distance and time was further
than she first thought", and the tears...
filled that flow since, and through time


at my feet helmets, two, both an ancient one, a new
one, i light the letter divided in half light the paper on fire
my great great great grandfather says as he
turns away saying "there is no shade in the shadow of the cross"

Okay, eat the mushroom and you will understand.
Really it is a happy poem, from my happy place.
"there is no shade in the shadow of the cross" - graffiti
Ottar Apr 2016

Zen grasses spring from the brown blades of Winter
Dirt dark, young trees harbour the empty spaces,
Full heavy wet clouds to lift, drop crowds of rain,
Falling drops land where grasses spring, a hint there.
Parking lot watchmen, patrol the dark places,
People get help with injury and disease,
Cars, people and water collect, but it's plain
Zen grasses hold rolling rain drops, offer Peace

Found it a challenge....
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